


The Substance of Things Hoped For

by yaycoffee



Series: 2018 Advent Challenge Ficlets (connected stories) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2018 advent ficlet challenge, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, New Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 00:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16821139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: For the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge. Prompt 2: Star





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've made a series for these connected stories; all of these stories will be happening in the same fic universe. If I write any one-offs, I'll make a separate series for those. This is un-betaed, so I'm sure the mistakes will be embarrassing ;-)
> 
> Thanks so much to anyone who has read, commented, and/or kudosed my first story!!! I'm honored!
> 
> Thanks so much also to MissDavis who shared this delightful challenge with us!

“Go on,” John says. “What’s yours say?” He leans over to close up the box of beef and broccoli, knee bumping against Sherlock’s now and then under the small kitchen table as he shifts. How often over the years have they sat right here--sharing a meal or hovering over case notes or chatting through tea and the morning paper, _not_ allowing their knees to bump? There’s just been so much, so much, so much wasted time. 

“Surely nothing so profound as your: _financial success will find you_ ,” Sherlock says, cracking his cookie and pulling out the paper. 

“The stars have spoken,” John says, pounding his fist lightly on the table, face schooled into mock seriousness. “I can finally get that pony.”

Sherlock chuckles, mirth spreading even to the lines around his eyes, and John lets himself believe that the stars might finally have done something right for a change.

Sherlock pulls a bit at the ends of the crumpled strip of paper, straightening it out to read. “ _Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen_.” His eyes soften for just a moment at that, and John smiles at him. 

“What do we do now?” John wonders. How do you start a relationship that is already nearly a decade in?

Sherlock shrugs, wiping his fingers on a paper serviette, using it next to swipe at a drop of soy sauce on the table. “Finish dinner, then perhaps something on the telly.” He screws his face up at _telly_ , but John knows he secretly likes the Netflix series they started watching last time he was here.

“No,” John says, shaking his head. “That’s not what I mean.” He reaches out to brush his thumb along the back of Sherlock’s wrist.

Sherlock immediately looks down to the point of contact, and blinks. “Oh,” he says, a breath. “Right.” He turns his palm up, and John slides his fingers along it, catching where the tips of Sherlock’s fingers curl up. The violin calluses are a rough contrast to the softer skin lower down, and the base of John’s spine tingles. Sherlock’s eyes are dark when he raises them to John’s. “I have no idea,” he says, small smile, voice pitched extremely low--but too openly honest to be as suggestive as it feels. Sherlock’s not being coy on purpose.

“Well,” John says, clearing his throat as Sherlock’s fingers flutter beneath his. He stands, tightening his grip enough to guide Sherlock to stand with him. “Dinner’s done.” He smiles. He steps in close. “Telly’s boring.”

“Rosie’s with Harry, you said?”

“Mm.” John nods.

Sherlock’s nose brushes his cheek when he leans in, and John closes the distance, kissing him. Why did it have to take them so long to get here? Something this new shouldn’t feel so familiar: the sounds of their shared breath, the small, wet noise of lips-on-lips, the pounding of his own heartbeat steady in his ears, the rustling of fabric as they shift closer, closer, closer. His hands slide over fabric, along Sherlock’s waist, ribs, chest, nape, and he opens, opens, opens his mouth to drink in the warmth, taste the lingering spice from dinner. He could do this forever.

Sherlock backs him into the lounge until his bum meets the back of his chair, worn fabric and soft padding over sturdy wood. Sherlock presses in with his thigh.

“Jesus,” John breathes, pressing back. Sherlock’s answering gasp sparks and sizzles against John’s skin just as Sherlock’s lips find his neck. Jesus.

“Stay,” Sherlock says against his ear, velvet soft, lips and humid warmth brushing just there, brushing, brushing. “Stay.”

“Yes,” John manages, knees weakening. Sherlock smells of cologne under his collar.

Sherlock guides them around, lips and tongue and breath and heat as he sits John down in the chair, standing before him with hair wild, lips swollen, eyes dark, and John--loves him. _Wants him_. John’s hands reach but don’t tug, travelling for miles along the gentle curve of hamstrings, and Sherlock sways down, down, down and _on_.

John hums against Sherlock’s tongue, grasping at fistfuls of the back of his shirt. He yanks it from his trousers to put his hands on bare skin, just there, warm, warm, molten warm. The softness of the cushion beneath them doesn’t fully muffle the rhythmic creaking from the ageing wood. 

Sherlock presses, presses, presses in closer, hands under his jumper, dipping just below the waistband of his trousers at the back. Sherlock is pouring in and around him like liquid home, filling in all the cold and empty spaces. John drinks, greedy, until he will, he will, he will _burst_ \--and Sherlock’s teeth graze his shoulder, stutter against the fabric there as he grunts John’s name, and it is, it is, it is music.

“Never leave,” Sherlock says against his sweaty neck. 

“I won’t,” John says, and he knows how true it is. He runs his hands along the clammy skin of Sherlock’s back and then his front, pausing at the heartbeat, strong beneath a small patch of rigid scar tissue. Sherlock shifts up, just a little, to look at him fully.

“Do you mean it?”

John squeezes Sherlock’s waist, thumbs smoothing up and down and up and down. “It’s been _years_ , Sherlock,” he says. “I’m never going anywhere again if you’ll have me.”

“Forever.” It’s a whisper. Sherlock strokes John’s chin, thumb over his bottom lip, and small lines of worry begin tugging at the edges of his mouth and eyes. “This isn’t the most ideal space for a three year old,” Sherlock says.

“We’ll baby proof,” John says, smiling a bit. “Rosie already loves you, loves it here. We can stay in my old room if you want to take things slowly, or--”

“I want you in my bed,” Sherlock says, hands tracing the line of John’s ribcage, smoothing down the fabric of his jumper. “If you want that.”

John does; he really bloody does. “Forever,” John says. He bucks up his hips just a bit: a reminder, a promise. “I’m done pretending, and you, Sherlock, you--”

Sherlock kisses him, sweet, sweet, sweet and soft. 

“You are my future,” John says against his lips.


	2. Crystalline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 3: You Better Watch Out. For @missdaviswrites‘s awesome Advent Ficlet Challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a double-drabble (100 words for each part), so I didn't think it needed it's own story entry. It works well as a coda to "The Substance of Things Hoped For," I think. And going forward, who knows? Maybe I'll just keep adding things to this?? Daily ficlet-writing by the seat of your pants means you have NO IDEA EVER WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN! LOL.

**_He sees you when you’re sleeping_ **

Sherlock wakes to soft puffs of breath against the back of his neck, a thigh warm against the back of his own. He smiles into his pillow. 

Slowly, he turns.

John’s eyes are closed, breath soft–slow, deep, and even. Blue, wintry light catches at the very tips of his eyelashes, and Sherlock thinks that if he were to touch, they would leave traces of silver on his fingers. Tiny whiskers glitter along John’s jaw, and Sherlock imagines running his cheek there, gathering diamonds along his skin.

John smells a bit of tea just here, under his jaw–warm, home, good. 

**_He knows when you’re awake_ **

John wakes to the press of a cool nose against his neck, warm breath on his jaw. He hums, lifting his chin, an invitation. He hums again, arching into it.

“Morning,” John says, and he opens his eyes to Sherlock’s, icy-bright and blazing. “Your nose is cold.” He shifts, sliding a leg against Sherlock’s until he can wrap his ankle around and pull him closer. The shift creates a tiny gust of chilly room air, quickly swallowed by the heat under their duvet.

Light catches, frosting the curve of Sherlock’s cupid’s bow, sweet, and John covers it with his mouth.


End file.
